


Brew

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Puns, Drunkenness, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:07:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac has grown used to Enjolras and Combeferre disappearing for days at a time, but a concerned neighbor has made him wary of this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brew

It was the porter who alerted him.

The night had been merry. The Corinthe filled with people and wine. Courfeyrac busied himself with distributing his specially concocted punch, and Bossuet took it as a personal challenge to drown his brew whilst formidably playing backgammon. The crowd supported him in his mighty quest. Soon enough, Enjolras excused himself, begging leave to attend to a few letters that needed writing. Not long after, Combeferre followed suit, and it was the last they heard from both for two days.

Courfeyrac was not particularly worried. The two often disappeared for days at a time — establishing contacts, carrying gunpowder sachets in their pockets, going on unexpected trips to see balloons — but when the porter at their apartments told him of the night-long shuffling in the rooms of Monsieur Enjolras and Combeferre, he was intrigued.

“What sort of shuffling do you mean?”

“A lot of furniture moving about, monsieur, and occasionally a bit of giggling.”

It was the giggling that intrigued him. The porter did not seem particularly inebriated, but he may as well have been. To even suggest that Enjolras giggled was an open invitation to spontaneously combust. Courfeyrac questioned him further, and after determining that he was not the kind of man to derive satisfaction from deluding people, he resolved himself to look into the matter. He gave the porter some change for his uncalled for concern, and proceeded upstairs to settle the profound mystery. Early morning was not his best time to solve puzzles, but when he perceived that the door was unlocked, his mind instantly became alert. Such negligence was not becoming of Combeferre. He was about to call out when from inside came the unmistakable, though unusually shrill, voices of his two friends.

“Immanuel is unable to make puns. He simply Kant.”

Courfeyrac’s hand stalled mid-knock.

“Do you suppose Shakespeare prepared his own meals? Paring is such sweet sorrow.”

This exchange was followed by a cacophony of cackles and slaps which seemed to be directed at the floor. Courfeyrac’s expression slowly transformed from wariness to complete terror. A passerby would need only to glance at his terrible physiognomy to be moved with concern. “Mercy," he muttered under his breath, and with trembling hand, he pushed open the door.

He was not sure what he expected to see. The room was dark. The shuttered windows blocked the entrance of light. On the tabletop, a flickering candle illuminated two figures on the floor. Enjolras and Combeferre had their backs against a divan, their legs sprawled with a dozen of empty bottles. Enjolras’s face was a picture of complete bliss, and while it was evident that Combeferre was already surrendering to sleep, he managed to say another round.

“What do German trees say when they bump into each other?”

He attempted to suppress his chuckle as Enjolras drawled a tired “what”.

“Ent-schuldigung.”

The two collapsed into a fit of unrestrained laughter. Enjolras’s head reeled back as his whole body shook. His laugh was loud, careless, and pitchy. It was the kind of laugh that resulted from having been repressed for far too long. Beside him, Combeferre held on for balance as his body swayed in various directions. His face turned red as he endeavoured to hide his snickers, but his efforts soon culminated into a cough. It was obvious that they had been doing this for a while; they had been doing this the whole night. As to where they had procured the wine from, Courfeyrac did not know, but the tremors they made sent the bottles into a resounding clang that mixed with their sudden gasps for air.

Combeferre’s spectacles were nowhere in sight. After expelling his share of giggles, he swallowed a huge gulp of air, rubbed his heavy eyelids, and nuzzled his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. His hair stuck to his forehead, and between laughing and yawning, he had somehow fallen into the embrace of sleep. With a sigh of complete content, he succumbed to Morpheus’s snare. Enjolras gazed at him languidly, put an arm around him, and placed a kiss on the deep recesses of his hair.

Courfeyrac stared.

“Would you like some coffee, my friend?”

He recovered himself. He did not know how long he was standing there or when he was noticed, but he supposed it was very much like Enjolras to notice everything. Despite his drunken state. “Coffee is a splendid idea,” he beamed, as if the sight was no less normal than meeting him in the university’s halls. “Shall I make you a cup as well? The caffeine should do you good.”

Enjolras smiled resignedly. “I would appreciate the gesture, my friend, although the coffee would taste like mud.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth formed a silent “oh?”

“It was ground just yesterday.”

**Author's Note:**

> The work was originally in answer to this request: "I know there’s a lot of fic where Enjolras doesn’t drink at all/only moderately because The Cause/personal preference/whatever, but since you’re already offering to take requests (thank you!), could you maybe do Combeferre and Enjolras who decided to celebrate something together and got so shitfaced for once that one of the Amis gets a phonecall in the middle of the night to post bail for them and suffers from the worst shock in his life?"  
> Not quite how it ended up but there you go.


End file.
